


Sherlock Can Name 243 Types Of Tobacco Ash But Can't Change A Diaper

by joinallthefandoms



Series: The Story Of How The Lonely Detective With A Skull Found Himself With A Family [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Hamish, Fluff, John Is Responsible, M/M, Parentlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:49:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2089425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinallthefandoms/pseuds/joinallthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Hamish is two months old and John and Sherlock are overjoyed (if a little overwhelmed) by their new addition to the flat. Just a little filler fic in the series while we wait for Hamish to grow up</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Can Name 243 Types Of Tobacco Ash But Can't Change A Diaper

"Sherlock! You keep body parts in our fridge and play with toxic chemicals but you're telling me you can't change our son's diaper?" John exclaimed in slight frustration. He was holding 'Mish to his chest, gingerly bobbing up and down to calm him, as he had just woken in a fit. The intransigent little child ("are you sure we didn't give him your DNA, Sherlock?") kept screaming loudly. 

"Yes, John," Sherlock simply said, flipping the pages of the newspaper in search of a case. John wanted to release a plethora of curses but refrained from doing so around his two-month-old son, who was still wailing.

"Sherlock, I will call Mycroft," John threatened. Sherlock and his brother had made a bet on the day of Hamish's birth; Mycroft had practically guaranteed that his baby brother would be unable to care for a child, and Sherlock had bet him the year's annual Easter opera trip with their parents that he would. Sherlock had demanded that the surveillance be taken out of the flat in order to keep the bet fair, and even though Mycroft initially refused, he'd given in when Sherlock broke into his house and tilted all the paintings on the wall. Needless to say, Anthea had to make several brews of soothing green tea to placate the elder Holmes.

"You wouldn't dare," Sherlock looked visibly affronted by John's threat. "I am your husband."

"You are a git and I have Mycroft on speed dial." John held Hamish out to Sherlock, glad to be rid of the horrific smell. Sherlock reluctantly took his son into his lap, his annoyed expression melting away as Hamish blinked at him and wailed unhappily. 

"Shh, shh, 'Mish," Sherlock cooed, stroking a single finger down his son's face. Hamish ceased his screaming long enough to take Sherlock's finger in his chubby little hand. John swore he could feel his heart burst as Sherlock gave his son a rare, warm smile. He went about changing him with the greatest difficulty one could imagine. 

"Ew, this child is vile, John," Sherlock raced into the kitchen, holding the soiled diaper an arm's length away from him. 

"Need I remind you he is our son, Sherlock?" John remarked, amusement mounting in his tone as his husband fretted about like a 5-year-old girl that had touched a slimy bug. He scrolled through his computer absentmindedly, pleased with the thousands of hits on his blog. 

"I fail to see how that changes anything, John," Sherlock carefully wiped his son down as he spoke. "And why do you have Mycroft on speed dial?" He suddenly asked, an accusatory expression on his face. 

"It's good to have the British Government handy," John replied, setting his laptop aside to stand beside his husband. He gave Sherlock a warm peck on that high-cheekboned face, wrapping an arm around his waist as the pair of them looked down on their now-silent baby. Sherlock, under John's supervision and advice, was able to apply the baby powder and dress Hamish in a new diaper and trousers. The boy gurgled happily and smiled at them. John observed as his husband's heart of ice was met by the blast of warmth that was their son. He had begun growing more sandy hair, and his eyes were still the same sapphire. He was a mini John, in appearance and in heart. He rarely cried, and when he did, he could be quickly placated by a plushy toy, a diaper change, some food, or being picked up. 

"He's going to grow up wearing so many jumpers," Sherlock joked, taking Hamish and placing him gingerly in the extra crib they had set up in the sitting room. He had another in John and Sherlock's room, of course, but Mrs. Hudson gladly supplied them with a spare she had kept since she had her son. Since they spent a majority of their time in the living room anyway, they set the crib up in there so Hamish would always be in sight. 

"Shut up, you twat," John gave Sherlock's shoulder a playful shove. Sherlock turned around, an equally playful expression on his face.

"The amount of jam he's going to eat," Sherlock casually took a few steps back from John. 

"Shut it, Holmes," John pursued him, a ghost of a smile tracing his lips. 

"D' you think he'll grow a moustache when he reaches-" Sherlock laughed as John ran at him and began chasing him around the flat. He giggled (Sherlock Holmes actually giggled) as he evaded capture by ducking into the bedroom. John chased him around the bed until he finally caught him, the two of them laughing as they always did. He pinned Sherlock's wrists above him as he straddled his legs. John connected their lips in a fiery kiss, both of them still grinning like idiots. He pressed down on those ridiculously tempting cupid's-bow lips and reached a hand down to Sherlock's rapidly swelling crotch. 

He willed Hamish not to make a noise for the next half hour. 

 

 


End file.
